A Rat In the Asylum
by Tidwell
Summary: I'm not like them". If he said it enough, he just might make himself believe it. Early morning musings at Mayfield.


A Rat In the Asylum

Down the hall, take a right. The _step-thump _was loud in the quiet. It was early. Too early for crazies to be up and about. Too bad. They were distractions, fun to be around: like toys that had been kicked, ruined and discarded on the black asphalt of a playground. He liked them that way. They had no fight left in them.

Fools, idiots.

Losers.

He wasn't like them, which is what he told himself on these walks.

_You mean when they allow you to take these walks. Don't be fooled by the crumbs of freedom they toss your way. Remember Steve McQueen? That little wheel he used to love to make go around, around, and around? He would go, go, go like Speed Racer and end up nowhere. That's you all over._

The deceased rat had been in his thoughts lately. He told Lil' T & A, the tiny therapist with the ginormous boobs, how he was sure he had channeled the soul of the dead vermin. The comment inspired her to give him a slow scrutiny over her glasses before jotting a few observations in her pink notepad. He liked when she was otherwise engaged. Then he could watch the little vein in her left temple go _bump-a, bump-a, bump. _Breathing in time to the beat of her pulse was fun.

Sometimes when he did this he thought of sex, of what would happen if their breaths mingled as they tussled and romped and poured themselves in to each other.

Most times it made him sleepy, then his head would nod and she would put him in his bed.

He hated that. It made him feel helpless and stupid, like the crazies.

But he wasn't like them.

T & A knew this. She was okay. She was the one who petitioned God to let the brainiac wander up and down the halls, across the grassy ground. It was cold outside and she made sure he wore his ski hat and heavy jacket when he went for a walk. Sometimes she got a little too close when she helped him shrug into his jacket. Her perfume was sweet like roses but sometimes he could smell her woman smell too. Menses. Blood. It was rich and good and it made him yearn to run his hands over her body. These thoughts he blackened and XXX-ed out with the invisible Dri-mark Amber left behind. It wasn't good to think about T & A this way because when the drugs took hold, he would blurt everything out and then she would know. The drugs owned him. They took everything he had and spread it over the ginormous lawn of Mayfield for all to see. Even the crazies.

The crazies could not be permitted to see what the drugs did to him. They would think he was part of their crew. Their posse. Their world was their own. Sometimes he stepped in to cause a little havoc, to make them realize just how insane they were, blasting any hopes for recovery they might have. But unlike them he didn't need to stay in their world. He could always step out again and savor the fruits of his labor from a distance.

A bandage on a gunshot wound was what this place amounted to. Once you're in the wheel, you ain't never, ever gonna get away. Steve could attest to that. He died trying, his tiny heart giving out mid run.

Steve was alone when he died. But _he, _the once revered brainiac, was never alone.

They were watching him. Always. Those glass domes on the ceiling allowed them to see anything they wanted. They had beady rat eyes, blinking at him in the smoke gray darkness of his room, assuring him he would never be alone again.

He took no comfort from it.

_Step-thump. _He heard the clatter of plates in the dining hall. Breakfast soon. His stomach groaned; he was beginning to get an appetite again, even though the food here was swill. When he sat at the long table next to the crazies, he ate slowly, chewing with careful deliberation. Most of the crazies shoved their food into their mouths like apes. Oatmeal coated their chins and cheeks, crumbs of egg and toast dappled their hair. It was gross. He made sure to wipe every bit of food from his beard with his napkin. Because--

--he wasn't like them.

These days, his mind was not his friend. It turned on him, gave him reason to scream in anger and bang his fists against the walls of his cell at night. His mind fooled with him the same way he did with the crazies. Dreams were interspersed with reality, like the red team had suddenly, inexplicably sided with the blue team on the field of battle. Case in point: he was almost certain his mother was here yesterday. If not, then he had dreamed it. But the memory of her arrival, of being wrapped in her arms for longer than was necessary, was pretty strong.

He could ask T & A, but she would give him that look over her glasses, the one that made him feel that perhaps he had hit a new low; maybe the crazies had finally managed to recruit him. No. He could do this, eke out the memory all by himself.

_Yes. Think. Ah, alright. _ His mother's hand trembled slightly when she slipped it into his. He remembered this clearly. He could still see the shine of tears in her eyes; her breath smelled of mint when she kissed his cheek. Yes, it _was _more a memory than a dream.

They had talked for a long time. Snatches of their conversation remained with him after she had gone. He made sure to stash those words in his jacket pocket next to Amber's Dri-mark before leaving his cell this morning. That pocket was pretty full now, heavy with words and feelings and all things worth remembering.

**WILSON VISITS EVERY DAY**. The message, scribbled in blue marker on a sheet of college ruled paper, was taped to the wall of his cell. Reading it was a comfort, probably the only time of day he actually felt even and right.

Cuddy had been here too. He knew this because of the Hallmark card taped next to the note from Wilson. On the front of the card was a purple flower with yellow stripes; inside was some stupid sentiment he didn't plan to read. **Yes. Cuddy. Was. Here** was scrawled across the flower petals in bold black marker.

He was glad he didn't remember her visit. Sometimes when he thought about her, the image of a lipstick case spinning and spinning until it transformed itself into a Vicodin vial would invade his psyche. One time the thought was so intense, it caused him to throw up all over the blue tiled floor of the day room. Then he had to go to bed and miss out tormenting the crazies.

That had not been a good day.

Something stirred, rousing him from his morning thoughts. The world was shifting. He sensed movement. Sound. With some reluctance he raised his head and winced. They were waking now. That special alarm for the 'mentally challenged' must have gone off, summoning the crazies to begin what passed for another day in their pathetic lives. He supposed they had a right. Just like Steve had a right to do his thing: eat his pellets, shit his bedding, run for miles and never get anywhere.

They were on the move now. Later he might toy with a few of them, play cat and mouse with their psyches, batting them around until he tired of it. For now, he didn't want to touch them or smell their sick stink, so he receded into the shadows and watched them tramp by. Like rats in a sewer, seeking food, light and comfort, they would keep going until they dropped.

He shoved his hand into his pocket, clenching his fingers around Amber's Dri-mark and the hundreds of words, thoughts and ideas that kept him going. Swallowing hard, he mouthed the mantra, the secret words he could count on when all else failed.

_You're not like them, not like them, not like them, not like them... _


End file.
